





Class ~P35505~ 
Book (Dl^pS 
Copyright N°_ 2* 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 






DESULTORY 

VERSES 


DESULTORY 
• VERSES 


Mary Norris Cochran 

w 


THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

CHICAGO PHILADELPHIA TORONTO 


PS 3 So S 
£■ 'Utils' 

l£ jz& 


Copyright, 1923, by 
Fanny Travis Cochran 


SEP1 p ?3 


©C1A711956 


'V* | 


Take thou , dear love , these records of my 
dreams; 

Look not for sadness—what is past is past — 
Think none less virtuous than today he seems , 
Nor me less happy than I am at last. 


“When thou hast roused thyself from 
sleep, thou hast perceived that they were 
only dreams which troubled thee. Now in 
thy waking hours, look at these things about 
thee as thou didst look at those dreams.” 

—Marcus Aurelius. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. Begultorp Rentes 

MAY IN CHESTER COUNTY ... 3 

DIRGE.4 

AT THE OPERA.5 

THE SINGING BIRD ....... 7 

THE DREAM.8 

TO . 10 

A MEMORY.II 

THE DESERT . . . . . .13 

YEVEY.l6 

“he giveth his beloved sleep” . 17 

YOUTHFUL ILLUSION . . . -19 

LIFE AND LIFE. 21 

SINCE THOSE OLD DAYS .... 22 

DANCE MUSIC.25 

TO QUEEN WILHELMINA OF HOLLAND 26 

SPRING IN TOWN.29 

WAR IS HELL. 33 

TO - ON HER TWENTY-FIRST 

BIRTHDAY. 35 

CHILD AND POET. 37 

OLD AGE’S FLOWERS .... 38 

E- C..39 

vii 











CONTENTS 


PAGE 


A SOUTHERN GIRL IN THE CATSKILLS 40 
THE NIGHT OF THE BALL ... 42 

lines on Washington’s birthday . 44 

NICHOLS—SORLEY-GRAVES ... 46 

THOMAS MOTT OSBORNE .... 47 

11. “Wetgeg of jBtortfj Carolina 

THE SWANNANOA VALLEY . . -51 

NEAR LINVILLE. 54 

THE VIEW FROM “BILTMORE” . . 56 


III. ‘Wet&tti of a iHorftern Me 


THE POPPY 



• 59 

AURORA BOREALIS . 



. 64 

NIGHT AT CAMPOBELLO . 



• 65 

THE MEMORY 



. 66 

LINES AT CAMPOBELLO . 



. 68 

A CANADIAN ISLAND 



. 70 

MEADOW BROOK 



• 73 

IV. fragment* 

OTHER WHERE .... 


• 77 

Antwerp’s cathedral . 

. 

. 

. 78 

FLAMES .... 

. 

. 

• 79 

PURITY .... 

. 

. 

. 80 

A GUIDE .... 

# 


. 81 


vm 







CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE FAMILY. 82 

AUTUMN NIGHT.83 

DURING A FRIEND’S ILLNESS . . .84 

REMORSE.85 

ON THE PLANTS IN MY WINDOW . . 86 

ACT.87 

THE MISSING YEARS.88 

VIOLETS.89 

TO DEATH. 90 


IX 









©esiultorp 







































MAY IN CHESTER COUNTY 


I FELT a new delight that day I saw 

The snow-like blossoms on the apple 
trees; 

Nature obeys no sumptuary law, 

For purple violets grew under these, 

A royal carpet for my childish knees. 

The distant hills of beauty without flaw 
Rolling to heaven in billows like the sea, 
Drew me toward them in a dreamy awe— 
Ail that fair land of field and forest far 
Lay like a dream. Near me each little leaf 
Listened, and yet the sweet air held no 
sound 

Save scattered bird-notes, to enhance, not 
mar 

Spring’s silent music: Passion, Care, nor 
Grief, 

Pale phantoms, dared approach that holy 
ground. 


3 


DIRGE 


F ALL gently, snow, from out the leaden 
sky, 

And may our tears as gently fall today 
For a long life that’s ended; let him lie 
In perfect peace far from the busy way— 
Fall gently, snow. 

Fall gently, snow, as on some meadow’s tree 
That tottered in its age and fell to rest 
’Mong withered flowers and grasses, where 
the bee 

Last Summer sang and stirred the warm 
earth’s breast— 

Fall gently, snow. 

Fall gently, snow, and with thee God’s own 
will 

Descends to shroud the undulating fields; 
Now birds’ and children’s voices all [are 
still, 

Nor these white acres any harvest yields— 
Fall gently, snow. 


4 


AT THE OPERA 


T SAT half listening at the opera, 

Until there came the strain 
That I had dreamed of through the evening, 
And dreaded; lest the pain 

Of hearing what I loved in joyous youth— 
Then sung by a dear voice, 

Now when the voice is still whose every tone 
Had made my heart rejoice— 

Should rend apart the quiet present hour 
And bring the past to me 
Will all its fairness shut forever past 
And sealed in agony. 

But God was merciful; that saddest strain 
That so prophetic proved— 

Its very meaning being love’s farewell— 
Brought back the shape I loved, 

Her very semblance, sitting to the left, 

In the front range of all! 

The chair was vacant till the strains began; 
None had sat there at all. 


5 


Her lily face and slender form, in gray 
Pearly as shimmering cloud! 

Well did I know the poise of that fair head 
And my tired heart beat loud. 

My being seemed new dipped in Heaven’s 
dew; 

’Twas simple, after all,— 

And a sweet peace came to me as I gazed, 
There was no baffling wall 

Between my love and me; the song soared 
on; 

It told of earthly pain,— 

My eyes were resting on an angel form— 
Earth history was in vain. 

When the song ended, and its trembling 
notes 

Died in the distance far, 

So died the vision in the lighted air— 

So faded my fair star! 


6 


THE SINGING BIRD 


I HEARD a sound like a singing bird, 
Distant, but gay and free, 

Like one who sang on the sheltered bough 
Of a foliage covered tree. 

And yet I sat in my little room, 

Nor living thing was nigh; 

Beside me a glowing, smouldering fire, 

And without a winter sky. 

In a moment I knew the sound had come 
From where the logs lay glowing, 

And came thus strangely from the fire, 

As if from a bird’s throat flowing. 

And I thought that the ghost of a bird who 
once 

Sang in a summer tree 

Had returned again to his favorite haunt 

And merrily sang for me! 


7 


THE DREAM 


T the edge of a gloomy forest 



I stood alone, I dreamed, 

And I turned to look behind me 
Where sunset glory streamed. 

But you who had wandered with me 
Across the level plain, 

Had disappeared, and I knew not 
If we should meet again. 

And now the sun-light faded, 

Save where in luminous sky 
Some little pink clouds were floating 
Softly and slowly by. 

I entered into the forest 
For I would not stay alone 
On the empty plain, and I saw not 
Where you, my friend, had gone. 

But I felt oppress’d and troubled 
And knew not which way to take; 
And now I knew I was dreaming 
And struggled to awake. 


8 


But, in vain, and the terror lasted 
Till a sweet thought came to me, 
That perhaps beyond the forest 
There lay the open sea; 

And that if I walked on bravely, 

In a while I should emerge 

From the weary, perplexing darkness 

And hear the roaring surge; 

And that we should stand beside it, 
You I had lost and I, 

And gaze on the sea together 
Under a radiant sky. 

This was the end of my dreaming, 
And I remember no more, 

Till I woke to long with anguish 
For a glimpse of that surging shore. 


9 


TO 


T HE memories of early youth 

Are not as other memories are; 

For me the dawn of trust and truth 
Brightened beside a lovely star, 

That faded from my straining sight 
Long hours before the noon-day came. 

Sweet star, that shin’st in death’s dark night, 
Leaving behind so dear a name,— 

We all who knew and loved thee hold 
Thy memory as a guiding power;— 

Star-like thou wert, yet never cold, 

But pure and fixed through life’s brief hour. 


10 



A MEMORY 


B ROTHER and sister, leisurely 
Once strolled one summer day 
Across the fields, the hilly fields, 

Toward one hill far away, 

That seemed, when looking from their house 
To touch the pale blue sky. 

The air was laden lovingly 
With summer scents borne by. 

And it was happiness to move 
Idly across the fields; 

Naught else but innocence and health 
And youth such pleasure yields. 

They asked not “Why” of anything 
That day; they were but part 
Themselves of Nature’s harmony 
And great unconscious heart. 

They strolled perhaps an hour or more, 

And then, the sun being low, 

They turned and home they slowly came 
In lovely sunset glow. 


11 


’Tis years ago, and one is dead,— 
The brother; and today 
The sister in her treasure box 
This memory doth lay. 


12 


THE DESERT 



HAT one has nothing of one’s own 


To offer Heaven, I did not know 
When once with unsubmissive groan 
I asked for an exchange of woe:— 

“Give but his life that now lies there, 

“And take my own instead,” I cried— 

“I offer all that future fair 
“That time is leading to my side”. 

Ah, such contract could ne’er be signed; 

No answer came, and torn from sight 
By death, no token left behind, 

My comrade vanished in the night. 

The Spring performed her lovely part, 

But not for him, and I alone 
Did gaze with a bewildered heart— 

And not for him the Summer shone. 

The Autumn, that he used to love, 
Displayed her pageant red and gold; 

Then Winter’s skies hung gray above 
The snow that decked a world grown old, 
Yet still through dullest clouds there seemed 
To shine my future’s fancied light, 

And all that I had selfish dreamed 
Now seemed to lie not far from sight. 


13 


At last one day I saw arise 
A glittering palace roof and tower, 
Whose dream had visited my eyes 
In many a blinded waking hour. 

I made a way beneath the trees 
Beyond which stood the palace wall, 
While visions of a life of ease 
Did hold my sleeping soul in thrall. 

But as I neared the portal's shade 
I heard a voice cry, “Dream no more!” 
The structure crumbled, and decayed, 
And fell to earth with solemn roar. 

A desert stretched on every hand 
From where the dusty ruins lay, 

Nor any hut in all the land 
To shelter me by night or day. 

And parching was the desert wind, 

As on I journeyed through the day, 
Leaving the ruins far behind 
And stifling down my drear dismay. 
That I had nothing of my own 
To offer Heaven, now I knew, 

Albeit I should ask alone 
A bunch of grass all wet with dew. 


14 


But when the burning sun was gone 
I saw against the glowing sky 
The forms of trees, and hurried on 
And reached them with a happy cry; 
For there gushed forth a little spring 
And by its bank I sank in rest, 

While overhead the trees did fling 
An arbour for their weary guest. 

And others who had found the spot 
Their gathered fruits with me did share; 
And joining unto theirs my lot, 
Refreshed I journeyed home from there. 
That one has nothing of one’s own 
To offer Heaven, now I know; 

But for the traveller weary grown 
Eternal springs shall freely flow. 


15 


VEVEY 


T midnight, through a watery wreath, 



^ The solemn moon above the lake, 
Looked down to where, so far beneath, 
A swan its steady way did take. 

Where farest thou, O snowy swan, 

With purpose confident and sure? 

The clouds are watery and wan, 

And the moon’s light will not endure. 

“I go on my appointed way 
Beneath a dark or silver sky, 

On cloudy or on sunny day— 

Already I have passed thee by!” 


16 


“HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP” 
( Woodlands ) 



HE Gothic arches of the trees 


A Are touched with green but faintly yet 
Above these many mounds of graves; 

How sweet to sleep and to forget! 

The beautiful o’er-arching trees 
Know not the graves that lie below 
Beneath their coverlet of grass, 

Or, late, their blanket of the snow. 

The pale blue sky and fleecy clouds 
Know not of death, or graves, or gloom; 
The sun shall never penetrate 
The baffling darkness of the tomb. 

That from Ophelia’s body may 
The violet spring, Laertes raves; 

And, as they might above that maid, 

So grow they here upon these graves. 

O life, O death! how fair and strange 
A thing is life—an April day; 

Our joy the lightning, tears the rain, 

And sorrow, clouds that sweep away! 


17 


But hark! a voice is whispering 
A slumber-song of peace and rest, 

Not of the morrow’s wakening,— 
Though we shall wake if that be best. 

“How sweet to fall asleep at night, 
When like a mantle care shall glide 
From our tired shoulders, and we lie 
Like all these people side by side. 

“How sweet to turn from garish day, 
From vulgar aims and petty spite, 

From ugliness of every kind, 

To the still darkness of the night! 

“From memories of cruelty, 

From thoughts of suffering and sin, 

And find oblivion of all— 

The quiet of the grave within. 

“Sweet are the bird-notes in the Spring, 

And fair the canopy above 

The cheerful meadows of the morn; 

And sweet the words of dawning love. 

“But sweetest words that fragrant yet 
A man may as a treasure keep— 
Sweeter than balsam’s breath are these, 
‘He giveth His Beloved Sleep’.” 


18 


YOUTHFUL ILLUSION 


O VER a little wooded hill 

A great enchanter once did wave 
His magic wand—to everything 
A great and subtle charm he gave. 

And this was felt by those who once, 

Fair, young, and happy, wandered there; 
It seemed to be a fairy hill, 

With fairy voices in the air. 

Their feet were light, and slowly strayed 
Across the common little hill; 

And still they drank the enchanted air,— 
Drank ever deep, nor drank their fill. 

In such a wood did Rosalind, 

Orlando, Celia, and the rest, 

Play out their parts, and still shall play, 
For deep delight of happy guest. 

Full well is known the enchanter’s name, 
Who waves his wand o’er painted trees 
Till they assume the air of life, 

And tremble in the magic breeze. 


19 


But his was not the wand that waved 
Over that common little hill— 

Whose, I know not,—I only know 
The fairy voices now are still. 

And though the birds do sweetly sing, 
And everything looks bright and gay, 
5 Tis but a common little hill— 

The magic charm has passed away! 


20 


LIFE AND LIFE 


H E hates the light and hates the dark 
And loves what lies between, 

He hates the heat and hates the cold, 
And seeks a happy mean. 

To love too much is agony, 

To hate is greater pain— 

Reason is but a balance pole 
And seeming progress vain. 

But when the narrow rope he walks 
Too sudden sways and swings, 

He will not fall in the abyss— 

He who has grown his wings! 


21 


SINCE THOSE OLD DAYS 


S INCE first I took thee in these arms, 
dear love, 

A tiny figure on a pillow laid, 

And since those days thy little tottering feet 
Did bear thee to me laughing, yet afraid— 

Since those sweet evenings when thy little 
hand 

Did seek my own before thy eye-lids fell 
In peaceful sleep—those days when at my 
side 

Thy hand again in mine, through wood and 
dell 

We followed fairy footsteps, or the way 
That Hans and Gretel took, (within our 
wood 

No witches ever dwelt); and passed to where 
The sun shone bright through trees that 
thinly stood. 

And our three dogs were with us, Prince, 
and Lance 

The sheep-dog that had never guarded sheep; 


22 


The Cocker that had pointed wood-cock 
ne’er, 

Who all their love for you and me did keep; 

And Max the setter, red, and grown as tall 

As a young heifer; though in learning nil 

In loving learned; his instinct to retrieve 

Was wasted, for we kept it untrained still. 

Your fleeting childhood made their whole of 
life;— 

Could they return, I wonder, would they 
know 

Their little mistress in the stately girl 

Whose locks flow not, whose skirts majestic 
flow? 

Three true companions were they to thee, 
dear, 

And thy true heart did keep for them a 
place 

And keeps it now, though they have fallen 
away 

Like dead leaves withered in so short a space. 

Since those old days in the low wagon, dear, 

Behind the gentle horse with name so fine, 


23 


Abdallah, up the hills and down the hills, 
And in the valley by the Brandywine;— 

Since those old days—how sweet no words 
can tell, 

For life holds much no words can e’er express 
But only dimly shadow, and the years 
Make the old sweetness ever more not less— 

How often have we seen the sun fall down 
And disappear, and the first stars would 
show, 

As we drove homeward in the after-light, 
And the green earth grew darker in the glow! 

Since those old days when thou didst ever 
turn 

To me for comfort:—what a change is here! 

I turn to thee and find a refuge suFe, 

Upon thy breast, from every doubt and fear! 

Thus now for all my loving care of thee, 
Which was no task, but my great happiness, 
Comes this reward; more truly, the free gift 
Of Heaven, who me in thee doth doubly 
bless. 


24 


DANCE MUSIC 


L IKE one who danced as if in glee 
J While all the while his heart 
Endured a horrid agony, 

Where mirth made strangest part, 

So heard I once a merry dance 
Beneath me somewhere played— 

My heart not long before, perchance, 
An echo would have made. 

But then no sound save sorrow’s groan 
Did echo from my heart; 

It lay as heavy as a stone, 

And had in joy no part. 

At first the music seemed so strange, 

I wondered, could it be 

That careless feet in dance could range 

So near my agony? 


25 


TO QUEEN WILHELMINA 
OF HOLLAND 


(Translation of a Poem by Jean Rousseau) 

O QUEEN of twenty years with crown 
of sunny hair, 

Your star has made you queen to rule o’er 
Holland’s plain, 

Your goodness makes you queen o’er all the 
world to reign! 

You conquer without war, and need no 
sceptre bear. 

One only realm you have, yet Europe, too, 
is yours,— 

Wherever beats a heart your empire doth 
arise; 

No sad, despairing soul who suffers and who 
sighs, 

But feels you are his queen, while Heaven’s 
grace endures! 

You, among kings, alone have used a vigor¬ 
ous power; 

You have held out your hands to grief and 
felt no fear, 


26 


As round some tottering oak, though pale 
death lingers near, 

A fairest rose-tree flings her branches full 
of flower. 


You only give us faith in this world grown 
too old,— 

Whence driven by the beasts the pitying 
angels fly; 

Without your smile one would have doubted 
of the sky;— 

That God is just and good and still his 
Court doth hold! 


O, Woman, knowing you, Man’s soul with 
joy doth burn— 

His brow is purified, his nature is made new! 
The poets now believe in poetry through you, 
As woods believe in summer when fluttering 
birds return! 


Then be the poets’ queen! And in their 
lasting story 

Your throne erect itself! And may their 
reverent hand 


27 


Strew thick with fortune’s leaves your path¬ 
way through the land, 

And weave above your brow roses of fame 
and glory! 

May their well-rhymed songs melt trouble 
into air! 

May peace and love alone your royal escort 
be! 

And may the golden sun protect you 
smilingly; 

A standard-bearer true, showing your colors 
fair! 


28 


SPRING IN TOWN 


ALKING ’twixt the windowed walls 



* * Of the narrow city street 
Something to my heart recalls 
Once how pleasant ’twas to greet 

The three sisters of the Spring,— 
March, and April shy, and May,— 
From my window in the wing 
Of a mansion far away. 

Sturdy March, the first to come, 
Bringing little warmth or feeling 
To the air about our house; 

Distant Summer’s hope revealing- 

Bringing messages of glory 
To the dark and barren hills; 

Singing low the Summer’s story 
Till each tree half-waking thrills; 

And in her cold slumber turning 
Nature, now in April’s sun 
Full of promise gently burning, 
Dreams a dream of Winter done. 


29 


Yet it seems that March still lingers, 
And each day they play together; 

Think it fun to freeze my fingers 
With an icy ball of weather. 

Think it fun if they can send me 
On a long walk in the fields, 

Nor do any shelter lend me 
When the sky a shower yields; 

And when sudden winds come blowing 
Chilling me unto the bone, 

Then these children laugh, well knowing 
That they laugh not long alone, 

But that I will laugh, forgetting— 
Though I’m ankle deep in meadow 
Soft and slushy—all my wetting; 

While I watch the shifting shadow 

Wondrously far flitting, weaving 
Such a pattern that the sky, 

In the cave of Winter leaving 
All her duller robes laid by, 

Shows above the Western land 
In a royal robe of rose 


30 


With a rain-bow in her hand, 

E’er unto her rest she goes. 

Soon the little stars are gleaming, 

And to-morrow, May is here;— 
Toward us even now she’s streaming 
Through the night air calm and clear. 

Lovely spirit, tender maiden, 

Coming from the fair afar, 

Thy dark eyes with sorrow laden, 

On thy brow the morning star;— 

At thy coming, buds shall quicken 
And the violets seek the air, 

And the apple blossoms thicken 
On the boughs so lately bare. 

There shall spread a carpet fair 
At thy slender feet unroll’d, 

With a princely pattern there, 

Green and purple, white and gold. 

And the little birds shall sing, 

And the perfume in the air 
Is the incense that we swing 
To the fairest of the fair. 


31 


Still so sad, mysterious maiden, 

Even when thou smiPst at me? 

And thy dark eyes sorrow-laden, 
Dreaming eyes I ever see! 

While I ponder I remember 
Where I am—in town, yes, here 
Where I’ve been since last September 
And will be till June, I fear. 


32 


WAR IS HELL 



HAT human minds and human hearts 


-»■ Are often blinded by the veil 
Of custom’s and of passion’s growth, 

Is a known axiom, true as stale. 

Else who would think authority 
Were born of heaven, that causes hell;— 
That makes of men a huge machine 
And they submitting say, “‘Tis well”? 

That grinds forth strife with brutish power 
Bids reason die, and common sense— 
Destroying individual thought— 

Its watchwords, “honour”, or “defence”; 

Destroying fruits of many years, 

Not only orchards, vineyards, grain, 

But brave young lives, with priceless flowers 
Of justice, love, and pity, slain. 

When shall we tear away the veil 
That binds us, blinds us, from the light? 
Each one who looks shall surely see — 

For heaven endows each man with sight— 


33 


See like a god who looks beyond 
The fighting men, a phantom show, 
Obscuring not his home of peace, 
But dark and small against its glow! 


34 


TO - ON HER TWENTY-FIRST 

BIRTHDAY 


O NE and twenty years unroll 

Far behind you, dear, today; 
Had you now some magic power 
Their unceasing march to stay, 

Still you would not use the power— 
So I hope,—since purpose runs 
Binding every day and hour, 

And there are no wasted suns. 

Even from unplanted ground 
Springs regret, and this avails 
Still to help us nearer God 
When our conscious effort fails. 

Were you gray, instead of brown, 
Still I would not steal a year;— 
That which is, is always best— 

We are God’s and need not fear. 

Though you say that you are “old”, 
You are scarcely young, as yet, 

In the sense of knowing how 
The Spring torrents flow and fret. 


35 


You are like a slender plant— 

Some green, tender, shooting thing— 
Leaning by a frozen brook 
In the silence of the Spring. 

When our fears and hopes are flown, 
When our life is nearly o’er, 

Then our joys and sorrows vanish, 
And a stillness comes once more. 

For the God who made us, mingles 
Joy and sorrow, and behold! 

From the alchemy arises 
A great glory for the old, 

Tinging all their evening moments 
With a great and glorious light, 

As a golden sunset tinges 
The last hour before the night. 

May no bursting brook uproot you, 
May no hailstorm bend or break, 

And may singing birds around you 
Every day their music make! 

May the air breathe on you gently 
And the rain as gently shower! 

May the sun of Summer bring you 
To a stately plant in flower. 


36 


CHILD AND POET 


A POET sees fair pictures in the fire 

Of smouldering logs at quiet mid¬ 
night hour— 

Pictures that come not only at desire, 

But as the breezes gently touch a flower 
Wafting its sweets to whom may happen near; 
Or else a vision rises to him where 
He sits alone in some poor barren room— 
Perhaps some scene that time has rendered 
dear 

And present distance makes it now so fair 
Its present loveliness dispels all sordid gloom. 

Or else some picture that has never been 
On earth in the same semblance it has now, 
Arises to him, not by others seen, 

While fade the careworn creases from his 
brow. 

Is he not blessed above all other men 
Who has these visions? When I was a child 
I sat in the old nursery in town 
And fancied that it was a fairy glen;— 

A vapour rose, and vanished, and there 
smiled 

A lovely fairy in a filmy gown! 


37 


OLD AGE’S FLOWERS 


T HE flowers of the wilderness 
Are pale and fair, 

Breathing their fragile loveliness 
In forest air. 

From fallen foliage mingled fine 
Springs forth their bloom, 

And decorates a holy shrine 
Amid the gloom. 

And so from sin and sorrow grow 
Fair, lovely flowers 
And no one recks the soil below 
Amid their bowers. 

Experience, sin, and shame and sorrow— 
Dead leaves that fall! 

And He that planteth for the morrow 
Doth hide them all. 

And thence shall spring Old Age’s flowers 
So colourless, 

But breathing to the sheltered hours 
Of peacefulness. 


38 


E-— C- 

H EAVY, heavy, my heart was heavy, 
Day after day, hour after hour, 
When all at once, like to a lark up-reaching 
His way to heaven in glory and in power, 

I sprang with you into the gate of heaven, 
And there awhile a vivid tryst did keep— 

I was with you in sudden joy and freedom 
As with you I had lingered in the deep. 

And not until the joyful day had passed, 
And peaceful night,—not till the morning 
came, 

Did I know you had died, and that the joy I 
felt 

Was that which burned in your released 
flame. 


39 


A SOUTHERN GIRL IN THE 
CATSKILLS 


H AVE you not yet seen the beautiful 
Southerner— 

Beautiful, pale, as the moon-lighted sky? 
Clad all in black save a bunch of wild roses, 
That blushing with joy at her fair bosom 
lie? 

From out her dark hair, a star gleams of 
diamonds, 

As if from a storm cloud gleamed Venus, or 
Mars; 

Why is it tonight that her young eyes be¬ 
neath it 

Are shining more brightly than diamonds 
or stars? 

She lingers awhile in the light of the door¬ 
way, 

And drinks from its threshold the cool 
mountain air; 

Is it this alone brings to her soft cheek a 
radiance 

The faint Southern breezes have never 
touched there? 


40 


And now though the moonlight falls coldly 
upon her, 

Beneath it she glows, like the coming of 
dawn, 

And melting to life, a Pygmalion’s statue, 
She moves o’er the slope of the silvery lawn. 


41 


THE NIGHT OF THE BALL 

“Grief fills the room up of my absent child— 

Then have I reason to be fond of grief.” 

—K. John. 

I MUST leave thee, my Sorrow, dear 
Sorrow, tonight, 

For the ball-room below me is flooded with 
light, 

And, hark! the musicians are touching the 
strings 

And now, even now, the gay melody rings. 

Let me pluck from its closet the long un-^ 
used smile 

To wear as a mask mid the dancers awhile, 
And thou, dearest Sorrow, abide in the 
gloom 

By the smouldering lire, of my own chosen 
room. 

When the lights are all out and the last 
guest is gone, 

Not till then may I mount the steep stairs, 
pale and wan, 

And clasp thee, my Sorrow, to part from 
thee never, 

For thou, O, beloved, art mine and forever. 


42 


When the gray bird of dawning shall brush 
by the pane, 

Alas! we must waken to sun-light again, 
But could we, beloved, together tonight 
Meet Death, I would joy in his withering 
light. 


43 


LINES ON WASHINGTON'S 
BIRTHDAY 


W E celebrate the grandeur of that man 
Whose nature was so noble and so 
pure, 

Lofty and self-contained, no selfish plan 
Could ever tempt him;—fitted to endure 
Great hardship, and dissensions meanly 
meant, 

Clouds black ahead, and sharpest stormy 
stroke, 

While adverse chances with his will he bent, 
And from defeat did new success evoke. 

O, Washington! They say we know thee not 
As we know others whom we feel more near; 
They say thy figure shown without a spot 
Is false to Nature and seems scarcely clear. 
If so, the fault is never thine, but ours 
Formed in mould less mighty than thine 
own; 

We strive and struggle where thy greater 
powers 

Did hold thee motionless as sculptured 
stone,— 


44 


A monument of beauty to adorn 
The space before the threshold of a time, 
When with deep throes a nation new was 
bom 

Whose destiny is far beyond all rhyme. 


45 


NICHOLS—SORLEY—GRAVES 


OUNG men of England, gentlemen, 



A Who only know one road 
And follow it—outside their ken 
Lie other paths;—their code 
Is to go on where it may lead, 

To happiness or hell! 

These are the men, this is the breed 
That England fosters well! 

To hear young Nichols speak that night 
Of Sorley and of Graves, 

Was to be with them in the fight 
And know the truth that saves 
From empty sentiment that blinds. 

Their feet were on the ground— 

These three young poets, England’s kind, 
Only in England found! 


46 


THOMAS MOTT OSBORNE 


O UR common praise fits common men— 
How, Osborne, shall I praise you 
then ? 

What words may I seek out and find 
To show your clarity of mind 
Illumined by the Light which streamed 
To holy prophets when they dreamed ? 

How show your tenderness of heart 
To those who spend their days apart? 

How show your purpose, firm and keen 
To undermine the what-has-been? 

We others went our accustomed way— 

At best we hoped a happier day 
Would come, but knew not what to do. 
Sometimes we shed a tear or two 
And felt a momentary pain, 

But turned and went our way again. 

You felt and suffered and remained 
Among the men so wronged and stained— 
Perhaps we others who passed them by 
If all were known, would lowlier lie! 


47 
































Verseslof J^ortfj Carolina 

ii 









THE SWANNANOA VALLEY 


T HERE’S a valley, haunt of quietness 
and peace 

Where all murmurs, save of running waters, 
cease; 

These accompany fair Silence, as she sings 
To the waiting mental ear, of many things 
That the crowded life of yesterday, alas! 
Had no room for, blotted out, or else let pass. 

Though my words be poor that paint thee, 
yet I feel, 

Swannanoa, all the charm thy banks 
reveal— 

Rippling waters gliding by the budding red 
Of the maples leaning lightly overhead;— 
Self same colour as these spring buds is the 
bird 

Flaming by them very softly, seen not heard. 

I have seen thee, Swannanoa, when those 
green 

Rhododendrons bloomed, and changed thy 
sober mien 


51 


To a gorgeous garb of colour; all the edge 

Of thy steeper bank a lovely flowering hedge, 

And the little rounded hills that rise from 
thee, 

And the fields that lie around them, joy¬ 
ously 

Blossomed forth in life luxuriant, and the 
green 

Grass, and grain, and wayside flowers 
adorned the scene. 

Swannanoa, from thy winding banks I see 

How those lovely rounded hills arise from 
thee, 

Bounding for us such a peaceful little place; 

Who would think, that from their summits, 
turn one’s face 

Where one will, the mighty mountains roll 
away 

Many hundred miles, like storm-tossed 
waves at play— 

Who would think that one could look away 
so far 

Just above the little valley where we are? 

So together, dearest, let us mount above 

The near limits of a happy earthly love, 


52 


Gazing out upon an endless silent sea 
Boundless as we hope and feel our souls 
to be— 

Reaching on and on forever—so it seems 
In this mountain land of peacefulness and 
dreams! 


53 


NEAR LINVILLE 


W HAT perfect and what heavenly har¬ 
mony 

Above the world lies here! 

Grey rocks and rhododendrons* purple 
bloom, 

And the dark mountain near. 

And far beyond the grey and purple peak, 
Blue peaked billows lie, 

While changing clouds their shadows softly 
shed, 

And, lingering, pass by. 

North Carolina’s fair and frozen sea 
Uplifting to the sky! 

Let other waters lower as they freeze 
Their plunging waves less high. 

What wondrous power of great magician’s 
wand 

Hath bid thy waves abide? 

The moon doth wander to and fro in vain 
Over thy ebbless tide. 


54 


I stand upon thy mighty cliffs and breathe 
A still sweet atmosphere; 

Though I am far above the earth, its dome 
I think, is higher here. 


55 


THE VIEW FROM “BILTMORE” 

I WOULD that you were with me today 
To gaze across the mountains far away 
In such an hour as this—all grey the heaven^ 
Save where a shaft of light yon cloud has 
riven 

And rests in radiant glory; and the glow 
The distant landscape lightens—painted so 
In Turner’s pictures,—great indeed was he 
Who rendered such a light so wondrously; 
And never any painter-poet’s dream 
Than this reality could lovelier seem. 

The mountains onward roll, and far below 
In the green vale the “Racing Waters” flow 
Beneath the terrace, which a skilful hand 
Has harmonized with Nature, fair and grand. 
Nor does the chateau scarce its beauty lend 
Save with the glorious scenery to blend, 

As if some worshipper should lift his voice 
With the more mighty organ to rejoice— 

So stands this stately palace, thus to praise 
God, with the mountains, through the years 
and days. 


56 


"Verses; of a Jlortljern Mlt 









THE POPPY 


(There is a story believed by the natives of 
this island that any one who drinks of the waters 
of “Cold Spring” will surely return.) 

I 

A PURPLE poppy, fatal flower, 

She gave him in that parting hour. 
“Why do you go?” she said, and smiled, 
And sweetly still the time beguiled 
With talk inconsequent. 

Beneath the fir trees by the sea 
They strolled, and talked more carelessly 
Than they had done, could they have seen 
The Future through her mystic screen, 
Which still remained unrent. 

Near by a shadowy form did hide;— 

They saw it not, as side by side 
They strolled. His careless accents fell— 
‘He had not thought to love so well 
This island/ he did own. 


59 


As through the wood their feet did stray 
He knew no cause to haste away, 

All ignorant of the dark browed Fate 
Who followed near and would not wait, 

Nor yet depart alone. 

“Drink of this spring,” she said, “for then 
Unto this isle you’ll come again.” 

He smiling, drank; nor did they hear 
These words, not spoken for their ear,— 

“It is of no avail.” 

This the dark messenger of night 
Did whisper to the water sprite— 

The sprite benignant of the spring, 

Who, as before some evil thing, 

Did flee with pitying wail. 


II 

The road diverges to the shore— 

The messenger now walks before; 

His step reluctant would reveal 
What even these dark spirits feel 
On cruel errand bound;— 

But still his form remains unseen 

As on it glides through meadows green,— 


60 


Unconscious still, they follow slow, 
Plucking the daisies as they go, 

Which thickly deck the ground. 

Beyond a narrow beach doth float 
Right merrily a little boat. 

With careless heart and happy glance, 
He to the boat doth now advance, 

And she remains behind. 

The shadowy form doth guide the bark, 
And could they now that figure mark, 
They would more sadly separate; 

But this is spared them by the Fate,— 
Or is it more unkind? 

“Good-bye,” she calls, her voice is gay, 
And light of heart she turns away, 

And turns again to wave her hand, 

Just as, behind a head of land, 

The bark doth slowly float. 

Now all alone, but happy still 
She idly mounts the little hill 
And never doubts he'll soon return,— 
Not knowing who sits in the stern 
To guide the little boat. 


61 


Ill 


The dial marked each hour that day,— 
The sun shone out so bright and gay; 
But many an hour will pass, I fear, 

And many a sun will disappear, 

Nor comes the boat again. 

And stormy days will come and go, 

And leaden skies and flurrying snow; 
And the cold wind will kill the flowers 
And she will feel their pain. 

* * * 

Today I have a waking dream;— 

A long low beach of sand doth seem 
All lighted with a golden glow 
As if the sun were sinking low— 

The sun itself is hid— 

Bright gleaming water, sand and sky, 
O’er part of which a mist doth lie;— 

Is it the mist keeps out the sun? 

It far across the beach doth run, 

A low, half-open lid: 

Upon the beach in golden glow. 

O’er which the soft mist hangeth low, 


62 


There is a figure lies asleep,— 

The waves a gentle murmur keep, 
That he may ever rest. 

One hand above his head is thrown, 
That many times did clasp her own. 
In careless ease he lieth there 
In golden glow and balmy air, 

A poppy on his breast. 


63 


AURORA BOREALIS 


HAT are the Northern Lights? Faint 



written words 


Illegible alas! from multitudes 
Of Spirits torn away from the warm earth 
To regions drear where we must follow soon ? 
Colder than flooding lights of coldest moon, 
Less lovely, more ethereal; chosen lights 
Of the clear firmament of Northern air,— 
Keen, but not cutting,—with a subtle life 
As if infused with a life beyond, 

Inclining to us in its murmuring. 

O, shrouding clearness of the familiar stars, 
Can we not find a clue unto thy being? 
When will we learn to read as little children 
Even God’s primers, much less thy records 
Of mystery and beauty infinite? 

Dawn, day to come, and let me see again 
The simple violet, whose texture fine, 

And pure exquisite shape of stalk and flower 
Adorns the epithet! Alas, even thou 
Accustomed flower, o’erwhelmest me in fear 
And abject shrinking, as unworthy even 
To greet the meekest messenger of Heaven! 


64 


NIGHT AT CAMPOBELLO 


O N such a night one feels the world is 
borne 

Onward through starry space from morn to 
morn. 

Here, on this island, where the scented trees 
Issue their perfume on the soft sea breeze, 
I lie tonight beneath the moon-lit dome, 
Star-studded, of our onward rolling home. 
On such a night one breathes a holy peace 
That even in the morning shall not cease; 
The clear, pure air, warmed by to-morrow’s 
sun 

Shall breathe a memory of the night that’s 
done. 


65 


THE MEMORY 


O SUMMER day, forever dead, 
Thy memory come to-night! 
Like a dear ghost beside my bed, 

Not greeted in affright, 

But gazed on with longing eye, 

And powerless stretching arm; 

For spirit forms forever fly 
Those who feel no alarm. 

Before thou dost in darkness fly, 

Let me thine outline see 
Even though brilliant colours die 
In dim obscurity. 

Stay while I trace the lofty line 
Of one small rocky isle, 

And let me there her form define 
And see again her smile. 

Bring me the odours of the breeze 
That softly touched her face, 

Bidding her watch the summer trees 
Weaving a shadowy lace. 

Where sky and water else would meet 
Lies the Canadian land 
To Westward, while below her feet 
Blue waters wash the sand. 


66 


Upon the island green and warm 
She stoops to pick a flower, 

And I can see her slender form 
Even at this midnight hour 
Transfused in the noon-day light 
Of weary months agone— 

O, spirit, for this wondrous sight 
Let watching make me wan! 


67 


LINES AT CAMPOBELLO 


I F thou wouldst know that life is sweet, 
Be seated on this terrace fair, 

And hear the woodland birds repeat 
A key unto the Summer air, 

And hear the Summer sing the song, 
Surging in holy ecstasy 
With purest notes sustained long 
That seem to soothe the slumbering sea. 
The clouds cast shadows on the sea, 

Of purple colour, dim, but fair 
As the blue water’s brilliancy 
That mirrors the clear heaven there. 

And out behind the headland, now 
A little boat with snowy wings 
Moves, scarce aslant, with steady bow 
And listens while the Summer sings, 

By whose sweet passion slowly borne 
The boat moves on across the sea 
That trembles in the shining morn 
And dreams a dream of mystery. 

For life is strange, and love is strange 
And God is watching tenderly, 

While lights and shadows interchange 
And lives stretch out so slenderly, 


68 


To blend and twine and intertwine, 
Weaving according to His will, 

And working out a fair design 
Fair, sweet and yet mysterious still. 


69 


A CANADIAN ISLAND 


I N ancient tale of fairy isle, 

Of haunted wood and nymph-trod sand, 
Which oft our happy hours beguile, 

None fairer than this modern land. 

The cliffs above the eternal sea 
Uprise as fair as those of yore, 

And far aloft, in majesty, 

The eagle, though unsung, doth soar. 

The lake-like harbour’s rivers twain 
Outstretch toward the smiling sun, 

And ne’er did Grecian sunset wane 
More lovely than this present one. 

To men of distant coming time, 

Our race “the ancients”—they will list 
To measured tales of prose and rhyme 
Of us, then hid in long years’ mist. 

Give grace now , Heaven, that we may know 
Where beauty springs, and poetry— 

Send fire to melt the covering snow 
Of cold conventionality! 


70 


By Lake Glen Severn’s narrow bed 
The purple flowers grow 
Beside the road that issues forth 
From fir trees dim and low. 

And ever I, upon the bridge 
That spans the current dark, 

The radiant beauty spread beyond 
With new surprise remark. 

The Bay of Fundy’s broad expanse 

Doth on its bosom bear 

The distant isle of Grand Manan, 

Pale, in the glowing air. 

The shining waters stretch afar 
From Eastern Head’s dark green, 

And touch the sky, save where Manan 
Doth lightly lie between. 

And now like chords in music struck, 
Those purple flowers seem— 

The necessary opening notes 
Of an immortal theme. 

And all day long the harmony 
Played by the Master, Sun, 


71 


On instrument of sky and sea, 
Doth, ever-changing, run— 

Save when the fog shall interpose 
His mantle dull between; 

Leaving us yet the memory 
Of glories that have been. 


72 


MEADOW BROOK 


N AUGHT else could be so lovely, I had 
thought 

As Meadow Brook, where you and I did 
stray 

Last Autumn;—but a miracle is wrought 
Beside its banks in violets today. 

The thought of this bears in upon my mind 
That there is always something still in store 
For you, and me, and all of human kind— 
And happiness increases more and more. 


73 


^fragments 

IV 

















OTHER WHERE 


T HOSE who are dead no longer dream, 
They sleep not neither do they wake. 
In a new life with other powers 
A new and different world they make. 

We cannot apprehend their sphere 
Save darkly as the Apostle said— 

It lies around us now and here 
This wondrous new world of the dead. 


77 


ANTWERP’S CATHEDRAL 


NTWERP’S cathedral with its lace-like 



spire 


Shows fair indeed in the late sun’s gold fire; 
Come, let its beauty sink into your soul— 

It is a part of the eternal whole. 

The Everlasting points a way for you 
As yon spire lifts against the ethereal blue. 


78 


FLAMES 



ND is man born to sorrow as the spark 


^ Flies upward ? Also say 
These flames we mark, 

Like joy and sorrow, last but for a day, 

And then they disappear and all is dark. 
When, late at night, man doth in ashes lie 
Whither are fled the flames? 

Do all our aims 

And aspirations, loves, and hates, forever 


die? 


How should we understand the mystery 
Of the Great Being’s super-chemistry? 


79 


PURITY 


W HO loves not for themselves alone 

Even Art’s and Nature’s choicest 
treasures 

Has knelt before the holy throne, 

And drinks of Heaven’s overflowing meas¬ 
ures. 


80 


A GUIDE 


A WAY, illusions, let me find 

One image constant as my mind, 
That keeps its shape as I draw near 
Nor doth in thin air disappear. 

Illusive beauties pleased my youth 
But later years demand a truth; 

One gentle truth I now demand 
That I may clasp its helping hand. 

Away illusions! Vanish all! 

The emptiness will not appall— 

For then I shall less puzzling find 
Some gentle truth that stops behind. 


81 


THE FAMILY 


T HOUGH we should wander forth both 
far and wide— 

Yet is our happiest station side by side; 

For we are bound in an eternal band 
Like words, once made a phrase by Shakes¬ 
peare’s hand, 

Which have a worthy meaning and are fair 
But while they keep their true position there. 


82 


AUTUMN NIGHT 


M Y soul was dimmed with many a care 
And sore oppressed, 

And seemed to know not how or where 
It might find rest;— 

When from a window open thrown 
A wondrous sight 
Lit with a magic all its own 
My soul’s dull night. 

The Autumn moon rode high above 
The flooded fields— 

O, magic light of perfect Love, 

My darkness yields! 


83 


DURING A FRIEND’S ILLNESS 


Y OUR ship at sea they tell me has been 
sighted 

On a dark and dangerous ocean far away; 
Only by the storm shot lightning lighted, 
Every danger of the deep besets your way. 

Hearing this I only live by sorrow— 

Should I hasten now unto some port that’s 
near, 

And be told that you were coming in to¬ 
morrow 

You would find me dead of joy I think, my 
dear! 


84 


REMORSE 


(“Poor Mathias.” —Matthew Arnold) 

O CARELESS heart, now careless never¬ 
more, 

The greatest misery that thou canst know 
Is to look back upon the long ago 
And beat in vain upon the closed door, 

And to recall the sorrow by thy side 
By thy then lightsome nature undescried. 


85 


ON THE PLANTS IN MY WINDOW 



HE power that pervades the plant 


Has formed the higher frame; 
Thy passionate rebellious heart 
Exists but in the same. 

Consider well the peaceful plants, 
Their fair, calm purity; 

Their ever upward lifting leaves 
Put forth a prayer for thee. 


86 


ACT 


T ranslate soul’s words to acts; 

Act, it is God’s command! 

Let each one make his life,— 

Joy drops not from God’s hand. 


87 


THE MISSING YEARS 


I N the night came tears 
For the missing years— 

For the days we never have seen, 
The days that never have been— 
The days that never will be. 

Yet nothing is lost— 

At whatever cost 

The road behind us is spun, 

And thou art my dearest one, 
And I am dearest to thee! 


88 


VIOLETS 


W HAT shall I say to you, violets, 

In the crowded noisy town, 

Lying amid the lace and fur 
Of my darling’s graceful gown? 

Only this to you, violets, 

That never in woodland air 

Of perfumed pines and the breath of brooks, 

Was a resting place so fair. 


89 


TO DEATH 


C OME, restful Death, come like the night 
air, 

And touch my forehead, feverish with 
care;— 

Come as a nurse who softly treads the 
floor,— 

Take up my pillow, beat it soft once more, 
And from my forehead, with thy cool white 
hand 

Smooth out the frown that binds it like a 
band— 

Or, as my sister used, come lie thou here 
While I draw closer and forget my fear. 

On thy soft shoulder my delaying breath 
May safely leave me, kind consoling Death! 


90 























































0 015 863 938 5 6 























